There was something in the cold, forbidding tone in which he spoke, as well as in the hard severity of his look, that froze all my resolution to ask a favor, and I would gladly have sought elsewhere for shelter for the night had I known where to look. The delay this indecision on my part created, caused him to repeat his question, while he fixed his eyes on me with a dark and piercing expression. “Darby the Blast told me,” said I, with a great effort to seem at ease, “that you would give me shelter to-night. To-morrow morning he 's to come here for me.” “And who are you,” said he, harshly, “that I am to take into my house? In these troublesome times a man may ask the name of his lodger.” “My name is Burke. My father's name was Burke, of Cremore; but he 's dead now.” “'T is you that Basset is after all day, is it?” “I can't tell; but I fear it may be.” “Well, some one told him that you took the Dublin road, and another sent him up here, and the boys here sent him to Durragh. And what are you after, young gentleman? Do you dislike Tony Basset? Is that it?” “Yes,” said I; “I 'm resolved never to go home and live with him. He made my father hate me, and through him I have been left a beggar.” “There 's more than you has a score to settle with Tony. Come into the house and get your clothes dried. But stop, I have a bit of a caution to give you. If you see anything or anybody while you 're under my roof that you did n't expect--” “Trust me there!” interrupted I, eagerly, and making the sign the piper had taught me. “What!” cried Malone, in astonishment; “are you one of us? Is a son of Matt Burke's going to redress the wrongs his father and grandfather before him inflicted? Give me your hand, my brave boy; there 's nothing in this house isn't your own from this minit.” I grasped his strong hand in mine, and with a proud and swelling heart, followed him into the cabin. A whisper crept round the various persons that sat and stood about the kitchen fire as I appeared among them; and the next moment one after another pressed anxiously forward to shake hands with me. “Help him off with his wet clothes, Maurice,” said Malone, to a young man of some twenty years; and in a few seconds my wet garments were hung on chairs before the blaze, and I myself, accompanied with a frieze coat that would make a waistcoat for an elephant, sat basking before the cheerful turf fire. The savory steam of a great mess of meat and potatoes induced me to peep into the large pot over the fire. A hearty burst of laughing from the whole party acknowledged their detection of my ravenous hunger, and the supper was smoking on the board in a few minutes after. Unhappily, a good number of years have rolled over my head since that night; but I still hesitate to decide whether to my appetite or to Mrs. Malone's cookery should attribute it, but certainly my performance on that occasion called forth unqualified admiration.